


Goodbye, Hello

by silver_penny



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Coda, Episode: Revolution of the Daleks, Episode: S13E00 Revolution of the Daleks, Gen, Psychic Paper, and then some more between Graham and Ryan, some missing words between the Doctor and Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_penny/pseuds/silver_penny
Summary: Graham, afterwards.Spoilers forRevolution of the Daleks.
Relationships: Graham O'Brien & Ryan Sinclair
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Goodbye, Hello

After seeing Ryan back to his apartment, over his half-hearted protests (“I’m _fine_ , Grandad!” “Well you’re fine _now_ , what if I turn my back and a Slitheen gets you?” “Right, well you can only come with if you let me know if _you_ get home safely, old man.”), and the rush-hour chaos of the ride back to his own place, the stillness of his empty living room is a shock, like breathing in the first rush of cold air when you open the bus doors after a long journey. The last few hours have been busy, capping off ten months of tension and worry, and while Graham doesn’t regret his choice, he’s feeling a bit at a loss for what to do now. With the Doctor and Yaz back in the sky, and Ryan down the road, and the sunlight streaming through his kitchen window in a way he swore the TARDIS could never quite replicate, no matter how hard she tried – well, the danger of the whole thing seems to be leaking away, its memory degrading in the presence of the world.

For a single terrifying moment Graham is seized with the fear that it never happened at all, that he’s just an old man, imagining silly things in his loneliness. Nearly frantic, he remembers the Doctor’s last gift, reaches with shaking fingers into his jacket pocket. When he finds the simple leather wallet his relief leaves him sinking into a kitchen chair, leaning forward against his breakfast table as he turns it over and over in his hands. Lit by an Earth sun and electric lightbulbs, it looks so different from how he remembers it, drenched in the blue and gold of the console room. But its shape and weight are familiar, as are the memories it calls up of bluffing past secretaries and security men, slipping through alien spaceports and into Regency balls. It tugs on his mind in a way he’s come to recognize – _psychic!_ – and with a grin he flips it open, wondering what he could be, what he could – and he freezes.

The small rectangle of psychic paper is filled with dark, cramped handwriting. He brings it up closer and then has to push it away, leaning slightly back in his seat until the words come into focus. _Graham,_ it begins, in the Doctor’s looping, elegant script, and he is struck suddenly with the fact of missing her, and with all the days ahead of missing her. Perhaps it’s the psychic paper, perhaps it’s his own imagination, but in reading her words he can hear her voice, can feel her presence as if she were across the room or perhaps in the hallway, looking to them and looking over them. He lays the wallet carefully open across the table, so as not to disrupt the message, and settles down comfortably in his chair to read it.

 _Graham,_ it says. _I know you’re leaving in a hurry, and I know you didn’t expect to return home so soon. I’ve been told by reliable sources that sometimes it’s disorienting or confusing, at first. But I think you made the right decision. If I could spend more time with my grandchildren – well, you and I both know that there are universes in other people, too. But don’t think that doesn’t mean I won’t miss you! Anyway, if you need help, the TARDIS’ number is 95475949 (but I don’t think you’ll need help). Go save the world, Graham._ And underneath, curled up in a corner, the scribbly circles he knows mean _The Doctor._

When Graham exhales, the world is more solid again and the kitchen around him is in sharp, sunlit focus. He pulls out his mobile phone and takes a photo of the message, and then goes back to check that it took. He’s never tried to photograph psychic paper before. But the message is there, with the TARDIS telephone and the Doctor’s farewell, and when he picks up the little wallet afterwards, the writing dissolves away, fading into suggestive blankness before he tucks the paper back into his jacket pocket. He regards the mobile phone on his table for a moment and then remembers to check in on Ryan. He’s in the telephone application before he recalls Ryan’s offhand comment from a few months ago, when they’d been meeting up every day to check on Yaz: _Come on, Graham, do you have to call me every time? Just text like a normal person._

So he navigates to the messages app instead, and types out what he wants to say to his grandson.

 _Ryan, hope u are doing okay & all is well at home. I am home in the kitchen. Doc left her number! 📞 But says we won’t need it. Come 4 tea tmrw? We can try 🚴 if you’d like. Love, Graham._ And he hits send.

The reply comes in alarmingly quickly, the bouncing little dots resolving almost immediately into words.

_Oh my gosh, Graham._

He’s halfway through an indignant _What?_ when the next message comes in.

_Yeah, sure, sounds good. I’ll bring biscuits, and the bike._  
_14:30 okay?_

_Sounds like a plan._ He types out. _I’ll c u tmrw, Ryan._ Send. And then, remembering the Doctor’s message: _Love you._

The dots bounce up and down for a long time, long enough he starts to worry, and then the next message comes up.

_Back at you, Grandad._

Graham grins, and leaves the messaging app, turning off his phone and tucking it into his other pocket as he stands up. He wanders over to the fridge, hoping against hope that it’ll have something new and different in it than it did this morning. Ryan’s love in one pocket and the Doctor’s in the other – yeah, he rather thinks he _could_ save the world.


End file.
